


Warm, Cozy, Loved

by C4t1l1n4



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Wings, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Hypothermia, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Apocalypse, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, lowkey BAMF Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 17:49:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21676567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/C4t1l1n4/pseuds/C4t1l1n4
Summary: Crowley gets too cold and needs a certain Angel to warm him up. Winter fluff!I tried to cram in as many fluffy, cliche, romantic tropes as I could.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 203
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019





	Warm, Cozy, Loved

**Author's Note:**

  * For [artenon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/artenon/gifts).

> Written for the Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019 that was organized on Tumblr. Hope you like it!  
Also, big thanks to @mechanicalUniverses for betaing!
> 
> I've made some fan art for this fic too, just as a little bonus because I couldn't resist drawing Crowley in a sweater. https://www.instagram.com/p/B5rAlxjHhWp/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link
> 
> Both the fic and the art are on Tumblr, in the same post on my account: C4t1l1n4

Crowley is drunk. 

It is cold, and Crowley is drunk. 

It’s winter in England, which means the weather is absolutely horrible. Less due to the fact that it is winter, and more due to the fact that it’s England, and the weather in England is always absolutely horrible. Except in Tadfield, for the 11 years leading up to the almost end of the world, but that’s not the point. 

The point is Crowley is drunk and it’s cold.

It had been a lovely night. Crowley and Aziraphale spent dinner at the Ritz before heading back to the bookshop for a drink or twelve, moments of shy, romantic tension stretching out between them, almost to the point of breaking. Crowley definitely did not spend most of the evening pointedly not staring at Aziraphale over a glass of wine, across a dimly lit room. He firmly reminds himself that he’s too drunk to think about it. He’s not sure how drunk though. It’s hard to tell how much you’ve had to drink when your glass never stops being full. He stumbles to his car, carelessly throwing a hand over his shoulder to wave goodnight to Aziraphale, who watches from the glowing warmth of the bookshop, peering just as lovestruck through the front windows. But Crowley is too busy fumbling for the keys of his car to notice, only to remember the Bentley doesn’t need keys to run and wrenching the door open. He plops inside, scowling at any snow—when did that start—that dare traps itself inside and tarnish his meticulous upkeep.

He drives off towards his flat with an air of drunken confidence and figures he’s allowed to drive drunk because he’s a demon so he doesn’t have to follow the rules, but mostly because he sternly told the Bentley she wasn’t allowed to crash. He stalls at a traffic light, watching it turn green and then back to red, much to his amusement as the car behind him honks the horn. It’s nearing 2 am, certainly no one is in any big rush, so he fiddles around with the radio as he waits for the light to turn green once more. The same three Queen songs repeat themselves, even as he changes the radio stations and inserts a CD. 

The lights flicker green for a second time, and Crowley snickers as a multitude of beeps resonate from the line of vehicles behind him, so he waits a few more seconds before driving through the intersection, just for the hell of it. Believe it or not, he actually wants to get home too. He can’t wait to park his car somewhere not quite illegal, but definitely in the way, waltz up the stairs, and curl up in his nice warm bed. 

_It’s too late to yell at plants tonight_, Crowley supposes as he drapes his jacket neatly over one of the hooks on the wall next to his door. He walks into the main room, takes a deep breath and freezes. Like, literally. He continues to shiver as he shoves off his shoes, nudging them next to the couch and hurries to his bedroom. _Why is it so cold in here?_ Crowley takes off his sunglasses, placing them on the small table next to his bed. He disregards the need for comfier clothes and immediately crawls under the heavy blankets on his bed, curling into a tiny ball in attempts to regain some of the warmth that he’s lost since leaving the bookshop. 

Surely there is something he could do about this, but he can’t quite remember. Something about miracles and this and that and- Crowley rolls over, pulling the covers tighter around himself as his teeth start to chatter. What’s this all about? Wasn’t alcohol suppose to give you a warm and fuzzy feeling? Or maybe he just gets that from being in the book shop. Alcohol. Al… co… hol… Oh! That’s right! Alcohol! He’s drunk! Crowley giggles to himself once more. He promised his angel he’d make it back to his flat safely—which he did thank you very much—and now he’s cold. And he’s cold because it’s winter and it’s England and it’s horribly miserable and other descriptive words his foggy mind can’t think of right now. He supposes he could clear up his mind but that would require a miracle, and he can’t quite remember how to sober himself up. So as Crowley falls asleep that night, his mind settles on the fact that the cold is a lingering after-effect of the harsh, nighttime wind and fails to realize what really is going on: the heating in his flat is broken.

\-----  
Aziraphale is worried. 

It’s noon and Aziraphale is worried. 

It’s cold, it’s noon, and Aziraphale is worried. 

It’s a blustery day and he is waiting on a bench in St. James’s Park and Crowley isn’t here yet. 

Aziraphale is worried. 

It’s not that Crowley’s ever on time, it’s just that he’s never not fashionably late. Now he’s way past fashionably late and he’s just plain old late. Which for Crowley is totally unacceptable because that’s what humans do. Angels are prompt, they’re on time. Humans are late because they’re humans and that’s what humans do. Crowley is a demon, neither on time or mundanely late and never early because that looks desperate. So that fact that it’s now nearing half past noon only means one thing. Crowley is in trouble.

Aziraphale is worried.

He miracles himself over to Crowley’s flat because his nerves are too frayed to take the time to walk there, even though it is a lovely day, if not on the chilly side. He knocks on the door—he’s an angel, he’s polite—and frowns when he doesn’t get a response. But the door is unlocked, purely due to the fact the Aziraphale wants it to be. Crowley is never too careful about locking it, especially after the little stunt they pulled at the end of the apocalypse. But the door swings open without even so much as a squeak of the hinges, and Aziraphale shuts the door behind himself, trapping the cold outside. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice rings out into the empty air and his breath crystallizes in front of him, disappearing after a few seconds. “His apartment usually isn’t this cold,” he mumbles to himself, seeing as he had gotten no other response. He wanders over to the thermostat on the wall on his way to other parts of the flat, peering at the numbers on the tiny screen. He taps the side of the little device and, despite never being good with technology, he knows the numbers on the display do not match the temperature of the room. “Must be broken,” he looks around but isn’t sure how to fix it. “I wish you wouldn’t be like that,” he informs the little panel, and suddenly a blast of warm air is rushing into the room. With a satisfied nod, he continues his way through the flat.

“Crowley?” he calls again, shivering despite the machine’s best attempts to warm the flat back up. The bedroom door shifts open and Aziraphale carefully steps inside, feeling slightly like he doesn’t belong. He comes face to face with Crowley’s sleek, black sheet bed and takes a second to soak up the sight. He smiles gently to himself at Crowley’s sleeping form, legs tangled with the sheets, thick blankets covering every inch of available bed space, and tufts of auburn hair in a messy blaze like a fire, haloing his head. Aziraphale melts, just the tiniest of bits, before turning to leave. Crowley overslept, that’s all. He did sleep through a whole century, you know.

He’s halfway down the hall, thinking about Crowley as he goes, his companion all the way back from the beginning of time when it hits him. Crowley is a demon. He was the original tempter, a snake in the garden of Eden. It was ridiculously cold in his apartment, for who knows how long. Crowley always complains about the cold, something about... snakes and being cold-blooded. 

Crowley wasn’t moving. 

Aziraphale spins around and hurries back to the bedroom, rushing right up to Crowley and placing a hand on his skin. He was cold. He was absolutely freezing. But he wasn’t shaking. He wasn’t like Aziraphale who shivered as the air still had a bite to it, even though he had fixed the heating unit. 

Crowley wasn’t moving. 

“Crowley.” This was a statement, not a question. A hesitant statement that feared to get no response. And it didn’t. Crowley lay there, just as quiet as ever, even as Aziraphale shakes his shoulder, and pulls back the covers. 

Crowley wasn’t moving.

Aziraphale scooped up his dear friend in his arms, unsure how to feel about the fact that he was still wearing the same clothes from the night before, and marched out into the main room of the flat. “You can have him back when you are warmer.” He sternly scolded the flat. Then, he promptly opened his wings and fled. After all, he wasn’t given the role of ‘Guardian of the Eastern Gate’ for no reason. 

\----  
The first thing Crowley feels when he wakes up is: warm. Well, he feels a lot of things when he first wakes up. In fact, he’s hit with a wall of _warmcozyloved_. So it’d be more accurate to say, the first thing Crowley notices when he wakes up is how much warmer it is compared to what he last remembered. 

The second thing he realizes is: he’s not alone. But there are no warning bells going off in his head, and he’s comfortable and he’s hit with another wave of _warmcozyloved_ so he figures he’ll be alright.

The third thing he decides is: he should figure out what exactly is going on. He eventually opens his eyes and a little “ngk” sound escapes his mouth as he tries to sit up and survey his surroundings. He quickly settles back down into his previous position due to the fact that any movement is greeted with a throbbing pain in his head and he has to combat the urge to throw up. He takes a moment to steel himself, but can’t quite work up the nerve to try moving again, so instead, he cautiously opens his eyes. What he is confronted with, is definitely not anything he owned. Crowley was swaddled in a terribly oversized, downright atrociously ugly beige sweater, and sprawled across his lap was an equally atrocious tartan blanket. 

_Angel_, Crowley’s mind suggests. But when did Aziraphale get here? The last thing he remembered was getting outrageously drunk, as usual, and falling asleep in his bed. But his mind is still foggy and his head is hanging to avoid looking at the overhead light, so he’s sure he’s missed something. It’s not normally this bright in his flat anyway. He briefly recalls being cold and… what time is it? He looks down at his watch, or where his watch should be, then remembers, it’s probably still on his nightstand. 

Crowley blindly reaches out in the direction that his nightstand would be in, and freezes when his hand hits a wall of feathers instead. He glances over in surprise and then carefully lifts his head to survey his surroundings. This is not his flat. Actually, he can’t really tell, because he is cocooned in a set of white wings. _Angel_, His mind supplies for a second time.

“Angel?” Crowley grimaces out and immediately regrets the way it leaves his head spinning so he forgets to listen for a response. 

There’s movement—the world shifts the slightest bit on its axis around him—and “Oh, Crowley! You had me so worried.” It’s only when Aziraphale’s voice chimes very close to his right ear that his brain puts the pieces together, and Crowley realizes he’s sitting in someone else’s lap. “How are you feeling?”

“Ow,” comes Crowley’s graceful response, screwing his eyes shut.

“Oh, you forgot how to sober up again, didn’t you?” Aziraphale sympathizes and reaches over to run a hand through Crowley’s hair. Just like that, his headache died down a considerable amount, and Crowley could think again. 

“Thanks.”

“Anytime, dear.” 

A moment of silence lingers in the air, ways to restart the conversation dangling in front of them, and Aziraphale almost snatched one, but Crowley lays his head back on Aziraphale’s shoulder, so the silence persists. Aziraphale doesn’t point out the fact that he had Crowley cradled in his soft, white wings as a way to trap warmth inside their little cocoon in front of the flickering fireplace in the bookshop, but Crowley hasn’t said anything either. Maybe he just hasn’t noticed yet. He had just recovered from being hungover. Besides, Aziraphale enjoys having the one person he loves so much curled up in his wings. It gives him a sense of control and calms his protective instincts. 

“What happened?” Crowley asks, his mind still foggy as he tries to recall the events of the night before.

“I think your heating unit broke.” 

Crowley groans in annoyance. 

“I think I fixed it,” Aziraphale admit, but is unsure. “It was freezing in there when I came to see about lunch, so who knows how long you had been suffering with no heat.”

“You came to see about lunch?” Crowley furrows his eyebrows in confusion.

“We were going to meet in St. James Park, and inevitably end up somewhere to get you a hot cup of tea—you do always complain about the winter weather and such—and we were gonna—”

“What time is it!?” Crowley exclaims, cutting Aziraphale off, jerking his head up to stare at the angel in disbelief. 

“Oh, I’m not sure now.” Aziraphale turns his head and peeked outside the _warmcozyloved_ wing cocoon to look. “Well, it is dark outside.”

“Dark outside?” Crowley splutters. “I slept all the way through dinner? I’m sorry Angel, even when I forget to sober up, I wake up in time for lunch.”

“I think you were hypothermic, with being a snake and all. I mean, Crowley, you were stone cold.”

“Were cold!? I’m still cold,” Crowley half-heartedly grumbles under his breath, pulling the atrociously warm sweater tighter around himself. A sweater knitted that chunky has no right to be as _warmcozyloved_ and reminiscent of his angel as it is. Crowley pouts, just the tiniest of bits, but a small smile creeps its way onto his face as Aziraphale fusses over him. 

“My dear boy, you should have said something earlier,” Aziraphale admonishes gently. 

A moment of silence passes. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” Crowley admits, in a very small voice. He suddenly realizes that he doesn’t have his sunglasses to hide behind and felt very exposed, so he drops the angel’s gaze and looks elsewhere. 

“I know dear. I feel better just sitting like this.” Aziraphale admits, and his wings sag, just a little bit. He’s exhausted, worn out from worrying about Crowley for so long. And everything for so long. The apocalypse is over now, surely they can stop holding their breath. “Even though we prevented Armageddon, we’re still on our own side, aren’t we?”

Crowley lifts his gaze to Aziraphale, who stares back at him hesitantly, his wings drooping a little more as he second-guessed his words. 

“Of course, Angel. You and me against the world.”

“Well, that’s good then. I just like to know you're safe. I want you to know that I care about you.”

“Angel, you’re important to me too.” Crowley tilts his head and studies Aziraphale, who averts his gaze, flushing slightly red. “Are you saying what I think you are?” A sly smile grows on Crowley’s face and he shifts closer, slinging his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders. 

“I don’t know whatever you could be implying.” Aziraphale shoots back, but this is familiar territory, and he is growing more confident.

“I think you do.” And without further prompting, Aziraphale pulls Crowley close, one hand shifting to wind around the demon’s back as they kissed. “I love you, angel,” Crowley says as they pull away.

“You never cease to amaze me,” Aziraphale says in lew of a proper response, but another wave of _warmcozyloved_ said everything for him. “You wily old thing. I bet, in all these years, you never thought the moment we confess our love for each other, you’d be wearing such an atrocious sweater,” Aziraphale says mischievously, now that he knows the feelings are mutual.

“Oi, watch it,” Crowley teased back, his arms casually resting on either side of Aziraphale’s head. “This is my partner’s atrocious sweater, and I happen to like it, thank you very much.”

They looked at each other for a second longer before a grin broke out on Crowley’s face, and both of them broke out into quiet laughter. Once their giggles died down, they took a moment to catch their breath and Crowley used the moment to kiss Aziraphale again. He then curled back up into Aziraphale, laying his head on his shoulder and securing himself to his side. Silence lingered in the air, but everything was alright now.

Crowley was no longer cold and Aziraphale was no longer worried.

A consistent pulse of _warmcozyloved_ radiated from both of them, filling the bookshop and lulling them to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written in so long!! This was nice to mess around with and I had so many ideas from the very start. Because I'm out of practice, my characterization might be off, but I did pretty well last time, so fingers crossed.


End file.
